


More Than a Butler

by second_hand_heaven



Category: DCU
Genre: Canonical Character Death, F/M, Family Secrets, Get Together, Love, M/M, Multi, Pining, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Pregnancy, Secrets, alfred is a good dad, all of the love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-06-06 12:47:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15195104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/second_hand_heaven/pseuds/second_hand_heaven
Summary: “Can you love more than one person at the same time?” Bruce finally spits out, and Alfred can barely contain a laugh. Bruce turns to him sharply, eyes narrowed.He should apologise for laughing at Bruce’s inner turmoil, but Alfred just smiles, not unkindly. “My dear boy, I very much hope so.”Bruce has a personal dilemma, and Alfred has a secret.





	More Than a Butler

**Author's Note:**

> The idea of Alfred being more than a butler to Martha and Thomas Wayne has kept me up at night, and this is the result. NGL, I sobbed while writing 80% of this. Poor Alfred. Anyway, please enjoy!

 

Master Bruce is in the den, curled up on the sofa like he isn’t a six foot two mass of muscle and scar tissue. He stares into the fireplace, thoughts elsewhere, not bothering to look up as Alfred enters the room. There was no patrol tonight, not in this harsh weather, and Alfred considered it a blessing to see the master of the house take a night off. 

There’s still tension in Bruce’s shoulders, something unsettling him. It can’t be a case, or else he’d be locked away in the Cave, so it must be something of a more personal variety. The only solution on Alfred’s part is to wait and offer guidance if asked- and maybe before he’s asked, if Master Bruce is particularly slow. Alfred sets down the tray on the coffee table, the teacups never shifting in their saucers. “I thought you might like some tea,” Alfred says, pouring two cups. Bruce says noting, not that Alfred had expected him to. For a man as perceptive as Bruce, he could zone out with ease within the walls of this house, unaware of another’s presence. 

The portrait of Martha and Thomas sits above the mantelpiece, their faces younger than that of the painting in the hall. Alfred smiles up at them softly, adding sugar to his own cup of tea. Even after all these years, he's never been able to kick the habit. Some things never change. 

Saucer in hand, Alfred takes a seat on the sofa, perching beside Bruce. It’s only then that Bruce looks up from his silent contemplation. He makes it speak, then pauses, lips pursed. Alfred waits, takes a sip of tea, and waits some more. 

“Can you love more than one person at the same time?” Bruce finally spits out, and Alfred can barely contain a laugh. Tea sloshes from his cup, pooling at the ridges of the saucer. Bruce turns to him sharply, eyes narrowed.

He should apologise for laughing at Bruce’s inner turmoil, but Alfred just smiles, not unkindly, and says, “my dear boy, I very much hope so.”

* * *

The Waynes were already married when Alfred began working for them. Young, intelligent, incredibly wealthy, both Thomas and Martha were stunningly beautiful. Right away, Alfred was half enamoured with the pair of them. It was their charisma at first, then later their unpolished charm, that drew Alfred deeper into the mess of unrequited pining. 

It was the first rule of being ‘the help’: never fall for your employers. Or maybe it was the second rule, after ‘don’t steal the silverware’. Either way, there were lines that should never, could never be crossed. The Waynes were happily married, and Alfred was a chauffeur, nothing could ever happen. There were rules, goddammit!

But even in the SAS, Alfred was never the best at following rules. The rings on their fingers were a sore reminder each and every day, but he carried on as Pennyworths do. Jealousy was unbecoming, just as pining for one’s employers. But the Waynes made it so easy, with their soft smiles and invitations for private drinks. They were so easy to fall in love with, and so very hard to love.

. . .

It was a rare occasion to have only the three of them in the Manor, the Wayne household usually buzzing with activity. But tonight, the mistress had given the staff the night off, all of them except for Alfred. Thomas was home early from the office, a pleasant surprise. Alfred double checked the calendar to make sure he hadn’t missed a special occasion for the couple. 

Alfred finished laying the table for two and called the Waynes to be seated. He pulled out their chairs and seated them, Martha first, then Thomas, placing the unfolded cloth napkins in their laps. Uncorking a fresh bottle of red from the cellar, he poured two glasses, and found Thomas holding out a third. 

“Why don't you eat with us tonight?” Thomas asked, his smile broad and hopeful. “We do enjoy your company.”

Alfred frowned, “I don't think-”  _ I don't think this is a good idea.  _

“Join us, please, Alfred,” Martha insisted. “The more the merrier.” 

It was just the three of them, no one to comment on the lack of decorum in either party’s behalf. The alternative was a quiet dinner by himself in the kitchen, which sounded rather drab compared to the effervescent company of the Waynes. Not to mention, the sheer joy that arose at the thought of joining the Waynes for a meal, even if it were just a casual dinner. So Alfred nodded and fetched another dinner set, setting a third place at the table. 

It was odd to begin with, but by the end of the entree, it was like they were old friends. And like old friends, the teasing was incessant, though Alfred gave back as good as he got. Thomas joked, Martha snooped, and Alfred gossiped. He nearly spat out his Merlot when Martha asked him, “are you seeing anyone?”

His cheeks nearly grew as red as the wine. “Ah, no ma’am. Seems I haven't had the time.”

Thomas frowned at him, calculating. “Perhaps you could do with some time off, have a chance to meet some new people?”

Alfred's eyes flew wide. “No! I mean, I'm perfectly happy with they way things are at present.” It was only a partial lie. “And really, could you survive without me for more than a day?”

Martha sighed dramatically, the back of her hand pressed against her forehead in a theatrical display. “We could never bear to let you go!”

“Insufferable,” Alfred huffed, with a smirk twitching at his lips. He played the unappreciated butler card countless times, much to their amusement. 

“Oh but you love us, Alfie,” Thomas had said, jovial as ever as he clapped a hand on Alfred's shoulder. Alfred didn't correct him; there was nothing to correct. He just smiled demurely and took another sip of his wine. 

. . .

It happened more often that Alfred had anticipated, Martha and Thomas inviting him to join them for dinner, or drinks, or other small activities. One night they would play poker, where Martha cleaned both Thomas and Alfred out, and the next they would simply sit by the fire in amicable silence. Together, the three of them would relax, enjoying one another’s company, and it pleased as much as confused poor Alfred. 

Other times, they would come to him separately. Martha would insist he join her in the garden while she tended to the rose bushes she adored so greatly. He learnt the best times of year to prune, when to be harsh and when to be gentle to them. He learnt his mistress’ favourite strains and her desire to breed new ones. He learnt the sting of a rose thorn is nothing compared to unrequited longing. 

Thomas would invite him for a game of chess, played with a glass or two of top shelf brandy and those cigars that Martha detested. They'd talk, mostly about nothing, sometimes about Martha: her new hat, what she'd like for her anniversary, a movie she was interested in seeing. Alfred kept it professional as always, but something at the back of his mind craved more, craved an intimacy unrestrained, an intimacy he could never achieve. So instead Alfred took another nip and moved his bishop. “Checkmate.”

. . .

For the Waynes’ upcoming wedding anniversary, Thomas had Alfred drive him to a jewellers in Midtown, high end, awfully exclusive. Expecting instructions to drive around the block for a while, Alfred was surprised to hear Thomas ask him to park and follow him into the store. It was hardly the first time his master had asked him along for such errands, but to help choose an anniversary gift? It was too much. 

But still, he followed Thomas into the store just like he'd follow Thomas across No Man's Land, with a raised eyebrow and a quickening step. They browsed through the cabinets, Thomas touching Alfred’s arm any time he saw something of merit, excited like a child. After what felt like hours of looking at diamond after diamond, Thomas had grinned down at him and asked, “what do you think she’d like, Alfie?”  

_ Alfie _ , such a term of endearment. How could he so much as  _ think _ when Thomas called him such a name. “I-uhhh.” Alfred could feel a blush spread across his cheeks that refused to budge. “Pearls,” he suggested, “a rather elegant look, I’d think, sir.” A string of pearls, tight around his mistress’ taut and regal throat, made a beautiful picture. 

“Thomas,” the doctor corrected, but he still nodded, pleased with the verdict. “Pearls it is,” he said, and asked the sales assistant what they had with pearls. 

. . .

Later that night, they gathered in the den, Alfred serving some coffee, when Thomas produced a box done up in an elaborate bow. The box from the jewellery store, Alfred recalled, and was about to leave the room to give his employers some much needed privacy.

“These are from us,” Thomas had said as he handed the gift to his wife, oblivious to Alfred’s shock. “Alfie helped pick them out.” He pressed a kiss to Martha's cheek, so intimate that Alfred had to look away. “Happy anniversary.”

She opened the box and gasped at the sight, two strings of pearls laid out across navy velvet. Hand to her heart, she said, “thank you, boys,” and held up the pearls to the light, examining their shine. “They’re beautiful.”

They were superb, Alfred had to agree. They might even be worthy enough to decorate his mistress’ throat.

“Alfred, dear, would you mind?” she’d asked, holding the necklace to her throat with one hand, the other holding her loose hair away from the chain. 

Him? Unsure of what games his employers were playing, Alfred played along. He crossed the room until he was behind Martha, and with shaking hands he took the clasp. His fingers brushed against Martha’s as he took hold of the fastener, a simple touch that he could never forget. He tried to close the clasp, but his hands, hands that never shook in the heat of battle, would not comply. He felt a brush of fabric against his back, a seam from a lapel perhaps. Alfred swallowed thickly, not daring to move. 

“Nervous?” Alfred heard Thomas say, impossibly close to his ear. “Don't be. Let me help.” Thomas’s hands covered Alfred’s, the surgeon’s hands steadying the soldier’s. Together, they worked the clasp of the necklace around Martha’s throat. “Done.” Thomas announced, but didn’t let go of Alfred’s hands. Alfred held his breath as Thomas brought their joined left hands to his lips, a feather-light kiss ghosting across Alfred's knuckles. 

Alfred jerked free of Thomas’s grasp, and spun across the room, trying to put some distance between them. “What on Earth is going on?” Alfred cried, humiliation burning in his throat.

Martha and Thomas stared at him in shock. “Alfred, we-” they tried, but Alfred cut them off.

“No, I will not have this… this teasing any longer.” Anger melted away until he was left with resignation and a hopeless sadness. “I thought I could conceal myself, my feelings, but I was incorrect. I-I apologise. I will be gone before the morning.” 

Martha blinked at him. “Alfred, we aren’t teasing.” She moved closer and closer to Alfred, who was frozen to the spot. “We want you, if you’ll have us.”

Alfred spluttered in disbelief. “What?” 

“We’re serious,” Thomas said, now at his wife’s shoulder, “we’d like you to join us. Intimately. Not just for tonight.” He took Alfred’s hand in his, rubbing his thumb over Alfred’s knuckles. “An arrangement between the three of us could be most rewarding.” His smile was welcoming, sincere, and Alfred could not bring himself to believe their words to be a lie. He thought of the dinners with just the three of them, the late night drinks. He thought of Martha's smile amongst rosebuds, Thomas’s lips wrapped in a smile around a cigar, idle chatter and warm touches. They wouldn't lie to him, not now. 

“But,” Alfred tried to protest, but the only excuse that came to mind was “it’s your anniversary?”

Martha grinned, taking hold of his tie and pulling him down close enough for a kiss. “Think of yourself as the gift,” she whispered, before closing the distance between their lips. 

. . .

It was a messy affair, with plenty of near-misses, but no one in the Wayne household was stupid or brave enough to mention it. It would have been worth the scandal, he had decided, just to have had a moment with them. But there were plenty of moments, both luxurious and short, where the three of them could be together in the most casual and intimate ways. It was easy for Alfred to love them, far too easy. 

 

It all came to a head when they found out Martha was pregnant. A joyous occasion, surely. But the question that none of them were willing to ask was, of course, whose child would it be? Alfred knew, in name at least, the child would never be his, and it hurt more than he could admit. 

That night, Thomas had found him on the Manor roof, with a bottle of whiskey and two cigars in hand. He sat beside Alfred, their shoulders pressed together, and lit both cigars, passing one to Alfred. In silence, they smoked and drank, watching the Gotham skyline light up the night.

“Shouldn’t you be celebrating with your wife?” Alfred had finally said, looking anywhere other than at the man beside him. “It is, after all, your child.”

But Thomas would never rise to Alfred’s bait. “You know,” Thomas said, taking another swig, “I quite like the thought that it might be your child.” Alfred had gaped at him, cigar nearly falling from his hand until Thomas took it in his own, stubbing out the cigar against the roof tiles, but keeping hold of that hand. “We love you, I love you, and by God will we love this child.” 

Alfred nodded silently. He would, until the end of his days. The floodgates opened, tears spilling down Alfred’s cheeks. Thomas chuckled and held Alfred to his chest as he sobbed, whispering soothing words into Alfred’s hair, chest rumbling against Alfred’s cheek. The comfort of Thomas’s arms was almost unrivalled. “You’ll be an excellent father,” Alfred had said, once his tears had subsided. He pulled away, just a fraction, but kept hold of Thomas’s hand. 

Thomas smiled and pressed the whiskey bottle to Alfred’s chest. “As will you.”

. . .

They never did find out who the father was. It never mattered. Bruce was their child, a child born to the three of them, no matter what the birth certificate said. For all intents and purposes, Bruce Wayne was the son of Thomas and Martha Wayne, and Alfred was a chauffeur, a butler, whatever his role was for the day. And that was okay. Bruce grew up in a household that loved him, his blue eyes always sparkling with mischief. As his hair changed from soft blonde to unruly, inky dark curls, they were none the wiser about his parentage. 

Alfred worked in, for, a household that loved him, but loved him behind closed doors. The Manor afforded some privacy, but the public eye was ever-watchful. It was unheard of for a butler, or a glorified chauffer, to join his employers to the opera, to dinner, or to the theatre. So he would wait, always wait, and and try not to think of what could be. 

He should have been there. He should have done something to save them. Too late, he heard of their blood and pearls spilled in a dark and grisly alleyway. He’d have collapsed in grief, but their son,  _ his son,  _ was alive. He raced to the scene and he clung to the boy tighter than ever before. Bruce was safe, and Alfred vowed to keep him safe for as long as he took breath.

* * *

Bruce gapes at him. “Alfred, I never…”  _ I never knew. _

The World’s Greatest Detective, deceived by an old man, he would laugh if it weren’t so painful to think about all the lies they told, even after all these years. “And you were never meant to know, not really. We wanted to tell you when you were older, but then…”  _ but then they died.  _ “I didn’t want the memory of your parents to be sullied,” he decides on saying, biting the inside of his cheek.

“Sullied? Alfred, it would never do that.  _ You _ could never do that.”  There a certainty in Bruce’s voice that brings tears to Alfred’s eyes. “All these years, in silence?”

Alfred nods, tears stinging, unshed. “I loved them, Master Bruce, in silence or otherwise.” The truth fills the room, spilling across every surface. He looks up at the ceiling, taking a moment to compose himself. “So yes, I believe you can love more than one person at once. You are not broken, nor are you foolish or indecisive. Well, perhaps just a little foolish.” He sends a wry smile in Bruce’s direction. “But love is foolishness. And love is precious. Your love is precious, Bruce, don’t let it be silent.”

Bruce nods, his blue eyes glittering. Look at them, Alfred thinks to himself, two grown men brought to tears by love. Thomas and Martha must be laughing at them somewhere, surely. 

Alfred clears his throat. “So, will Ms Prince and Master Kent be accompanying you for dinner tomorrow night?” It’s hardly a secret who Bruce could have meant, not to Alfred. 

“Not tomorrow night,” Bruce says, though it’s not a denial. 

Alfred hides the smirk that teases at the corner of his mouth. “The night after, perhaps?”

“Sounds good,” Bruce smiles at him and nods. He reaches across the space between them, covering Alfred’s hand in his. “Thank you,” Bruce says, and that’s all it takes for the tears to fall. 

 

The figures of portrait above the fireplace watch on, smiles on both their faces.

 

_ FIN _

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments and Kudos are always welcome.
> 
> Feel free to come chat with me on my [tumblr](http://second-hand-heaven.tumblr.com/)
> 
> -Nova xx


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